


working backwards

by catbuns



Category: Homestuck, MS Paint Adventures
Genre: Alternate Universe, Boys In Love, Boys Kissing, Fluff, M/M, One Shot, Short & Sweet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-18
Updated: 2019-03-18
Packaged: 2019-11-23 10:40:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18150785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/catbuns/pseuds/catbuns
Summary: John?” you whisper, and your voice is small and weak and you swallow to drown the expectations building in your throat.Fluffy one-off written in second-person. Found this in an abandoned folder from years ago.





	working backwards

John sits near you, lazily blinking at the television screen. His glasses lay folded neatly on the coffee table, revealing bleary, red-rimmed eyes. You see him nodding off, so you suggest he spend the night. John just sighs and flops on his side, his head landing heavily on your thigh. The impact hurts, but you don’t mind. Your arm, resting on the back of the couch, itches to touch him. 

Bubbles of anxiety and shame fill your stomach. 

Still, you thread a hand into John’s hair and comb your fingers through, lightly scratching at John’s scalp. Thick curls protest your movements, but you expertly coax the knots to give way. You’ve done this before, you’re not venturing into radically precarious territory with this gesture. John is fairly affectionate, and you’ve learned to return chaste, harmless touches that bleed platonism. Yet, the way your heart pounds in your chest mirrors the way you’ve tried and tried to pound the title of “friend” into your categorization of John. 

You feel him hum against your leg, sounding out a simple, rhythmic tune. The vibrations feel therapeutic, and you’re disappointed when he steadily grows quieter and quieter until the only sound left filling the room is the soft buzz of the television. 

Fingers damp with sweat graze your own, and you exhale a soft breath before mustering the courage to extend your fingers and return the gesture. You don’t care that John is half asleep. A mix of adrenaline and hormones push you a little further, and you slowly slip your hand into his. Your heart nearly stops as he opens his palm to you, pressing his fingertips against yours. He gently traces along your fingers to your wrist, and the skin on your hand burns. His fingers are soft and smooth, uncalloused and delicate and somehow exactly as you’d expected them to feel when pressed against your own. You feel silly for having expectations.

John repeats the movement, and you close your hand on top of his, your fingers moving on their own to lace into his. His eyes flick up to meet yours, and you think you've fucked up but instead he lightly squeezes your hand and drags his thumb over your knuckles. 

His eyes close and he falls still. 

Many minutes pass and you think he has fallen asleep. Your own eyes begin to droop when he sits up, his face level with yours, inches away. His eyes, suddenly wide and clear, pin you. You're losing an unspoken battle, slipping off a cliff of nerves and preservation and guilt.

John?” you whisper, and your voice is small and weak and you swallow to drown the expectations building in your throat. Your stomach rolls as you feel his warm breath on your skin. His eyes slide shut, and he closes the distance between your lips. You inhale. He lightly kisses you, his lips soft and wet and warm against your cold, chapped ones. You exhale and fireworks explode behind your closed eyelids (when did you close your eyes?). You can't help but think this is too much, he is too much. Kissing him feels safe and right, like his mouth was shaped for yours. His hand leaves yours and, instead, settles on your chest (can he feel your heartbeat?). You rush to return the kiss, drinking in the beauty (the perfection) of the moment (of him).

When he pulls away seconds later, you resist the urge to reel him back. The kiss was chaste and modest, leaving you aching and wanting more, so much more that it physically hurts to let him move away. Your eyes stay shut as you catalogue and memorize the feel of his mouth against your own, the feel of warm breath rushing out his nose as he kisses you. 

And suddenly he’s kissing you again, but it’s even more gentle and you actually pursed your lips this time and

His mouth is dry and warm and you can hardly handle it, how he makes it so effortless and soft. You snake a hand around his neck and pull him in farther, and the way he leans into you, the way he melts into you, makes your stomach flip and ears ring. When he pulls back a second time, you wonder if he can see the expanding nebulae in your eyes. He slumps down into your neck, falling asleep minutes later. He breathes a pattern into your skin and you hope to god your cells never forget the feeling of his face, warm and pliant, plastered into your collarbone. His hand remains on your chest, warm and comforting.

You decide to lay your arms across his shoulders and trace patterns into his spine.


End file.
